


letters for grace

by ninasinthebedroom



Category: Original Work, Peaky Blinders
Genre: F/F, Feral, I hope, anyway, but can be read as in a classic pb setting, but yeah, my heart literally aches for ada i absolutely love her, somehow of a victorian au, this is somewhat personal, this is.... tender, this pairing really will haunt me until my days are done on this earth huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 08:37:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninasinthebedroom/pseuds/ninasinthebedroom
Summary: What can be said of my heart, other than it shall die a little each day it'll continue to grow further apart from yours?





	letters for grace

**Author's Note:**

> as the title suggests, this is ada's POV, addressed to grace, and will most likely continue to be as i add more chapters, but it can be read in whatever way you prefer!! :))
> 
>  
> 
> ...also.... does someone listen to tame impala here?? lmao im in Huge need to talk about music (wrote this while listening to sundrown syndrome on repeat btw that song is so GOOD ugh)

_'My love for you won’t let me sleep._

_I feel it necessary to write especially when overcome by such intense emotions. One, I believe, must always write, to reflect what is happening at the heart and to soothe and spark it further at the same time._

_I can only cry, thoroughly, vehemently, truly, where my tears suffocate me before they hit the ground and where the ground suffocates me before the dawn is done, too. I feel, I feel as if I've never felt before. I feel the raging storm of love in my gut, deprived of the ability to be what I’ve for years known of myself. Swing, sway. To the music. From one side to the other. A child. On a swing set of music. You've taught me that, dear, didn't you? I still remember the melody._

_Rising, the tide is rising above my lungs. I’ve never taught any part of my body how to swim, how to float and slide on whatever sea storm my reckless, wandering heart brings them._

_How many letters am I going to write? Until I run short of pages, of ink, of hands and fingers, of heart and soul? Until the world runs out of paper and we both run out of days to confess this, to speak about matters so sacredly private, only reachable within these sheets of paper. How many hours? Kisses? Dreams?_

_When I’m done, I dress these fragile fragments of my untidy wishes into envelopes. I spray them with your perfume and pretend that my own words are your words. I spray them with mine. Then, I imagine myself displaying the courage I boast about possessing, I visualize my own shadowy figure in the moonlight as I'd creep across the hallway. I'd slip this letter, all of them, into the space between your door and your threshold, push them further where I, though not aware of the fact yet, will lose all control about how you'll perceive and this gesture._

_Would you ever refuse the truth? What is the cost of living in ignorance, of falling deeper into oblivion?_

_We could rise above this, dearest. We always do. I have no fear if something would ever part us truly, that you'd continue to do so, in your own fantastic braveness I have yet to come even vaguely close to. But such thoughts don't tend to please the soft, web-like fabric of my mind. In earnest, I begin to tremble, falling down the spiral of horrifying panic, this fear, disgustingly ugly, love-possessed fear for my own life in return, if I ever even merely brush against this dusty old chest with the thought of losing you completely on its very bottom, crushing my ribs and everything in its path._

_How close is the day of our farewell? How quickly is it approaching?_

_Please, save me from thinking any deeper about this._

_Take me. And if you can't, if the voiceless river streaming within your core doesn't allow you to bend out of the rules it has set for you to obey, I'll understand. Just please, if you can grant me one last gesture of kindness: take me with you. And only after we’ll have run away from this prison of a city, this ticking bomb of a home that has never felt like one, even less so to me than to you, only after we’re finally spared of what we were forced to hide from for such a long time, there, kiss me like it’s the first time for me and the last time for you. Kiss me, make love to me with your hands caressing my cheeks, spin me under and around the stars until I know no longer which moon I belong to. Then, be gone. Before I open my eyes, disappear._

_(please, don’t, please, never make me fear to open my eyes in the morning, in the bed without you beside me.)_

_But now, to distract myself, to finish my fantasy so chaotically disrupted in the middle of my letter, let me tell you more. I’ve not yet told you about what I imagine about this woman; the woman of my dreams, the Venus of my universe, the fire of my hell and the divine arch of the clouds that make up my heaven. (Is it clear enough to you now, my love, that it is you?)_

_I picture her opening the door, slowly, carefully at first, as though to ensure herself it is truly me standing in front of her doorstep in such a late-night hour, and I take a swelling pride in knowing she had deemed me her trusted visitor. She'd smile, oh, the saving grace of her soft expression that takes me into its loving arms before her body proceeds to. Then she, without a reproach, would yet closer again approach me. One, two, three steps. It's just enough and it isn't, but neither of us wants to pass each other. We're busy enough with that during daylight._

_I would kiss her on the cheek. I don't know yet how to kiss properly, but I’m sure the instinct will come to save me before any doubting thoughts arrive at the parade. I’d kiss her and let myself be kissed in return, stroke her hair as if it’s the scalp of my most treasured lover. And she would know that it is, it is truly like that. I’d grasp at the back of her neck to resist the threat of fainting, to not ascend as I only long to stay firmly in her embrace._

_By the time I would have melted like chocolate in the hot sun, like honey drowning and softening the bread which it spreads on, melted like something that suggests to humans to think of anything motherly, familiar, tender and ringing close and sweet to the heart before anyone should think of melted gold, we will be as one. Her and myself, one heart. She would, hopefully, as I could only pray, start talking first – for I’m not sure I’d have enough breath in my drowned lungs._

_She’ll say "so it’s you," and I’ll fall apart as she enthrals the final halls of me._

_"so, we meet_

_and here we are_

_where you are you_

_and I am you_

_and you are all but me."_

 

 

_Will I see you tomorrow, my darling? I hope. May no one wakes me up until they've promised me I can look forward to your visit.'_

 

 

 

Ada gets up from the table. Light-hearted and heavy-limbed, she folds the paper in half. The sound of her nail scraping against the edge feels like an intruder in the silence.

Outside, the darkness has eaten everything living. Turned it into the remains at the bottom of the inkwell, which is the bottom of Ada's stomach. Her chest, full of rose petals, lets itself sway with the wind that finds its way inside through the window. 

The flame flickers without a shadow, having eaten the candle almost half-way through in such short hours. Ada believes the intensity of the fire reflects the heat whispering among her heart's murky chambers, differing each night and day but never possible to quiet down.

_You're_ _the reason I'm running out of candles, as well._

For a moment, she ponders burning the letter, watching the greedy flame lick along and crumble the paper into ashes. Would it bring her satisfaction? 

She decides against it.

Ada takes the perfume and the envelopes from the mirror shelf, performing her little divine ritual like every other midnight this past three weeks. The scent breaks her heartstrings and leaves them bleeding rust. She parts with the moon, her farewell, like bird's wings, set free as she yanks the curtains closed and they flutter like the sea. Late spring, late night and getting up early. Early blossoms of love that feels like centuries old. Like everything right in this damned world.  

She makes sure to dodge the mirror's judgemental, demanding gaze on her way to the bed. She's become well acquainted with the sullen sunken eyes, puffy and red in the corners, the ashy tint of her lips. _How can Grace find something beautiful about this?_

She places the candle on the top of her nightstand, lies down, covers untouched, grasping tightly onto the pillows. The scorching wax eventually drowns the smothering flame. The room goes dark and even quieter. She lets it.

Tonight, the misery clings cold and wet to her ribs like an old murder.

Ada has forgotten how to pray. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
